


You like the holster, huh?

by WhiteLadyoftheRing



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: F/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-21
Updated: 2013-02-21
Packaged: 2017-11-30 00:34:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,272
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/693315
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WhiteLadyoftheRing/pseuds/WhiteLadyoftheRing
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“So,” Snow says with a lilt in her voice.  “We've got the house to ourselves tonight.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	You like the holster, huh?

**Author's Note:**

> A post-ep for 2x13 'Tiny'. Minor spoilers apply, but mostly smut. Because there needs to be more Snow/Charming smut in the world. Nothing too explicit, but there is no plot here, sorry.
> 
> Disclaimer: I own nothing.

“So,” Snow says with a lilt in her voice. “We've got the house to ourselves tonight.”

 

“We do,” David agrees, setting his keys down and shrugging off his coat to reveal the holster underneath. Snow had been raised as a lady, taught to rise above her base desires; not to go tromping about with any handsome suitor with good swordsmanship skills. But as Mary Margaret, she'd only been able to resist temptation for so long. The holster does suit him, but she really thinks that it's just visual proof that he's a hero – her hero – that David Nolan is actually just-David, her Charming, who's slain dragons and pulled his kingdom from the depths of poverty into prosperity.

 

That's the thought that sends a rush of adrenaline through her veins, settling at the very base of her spine.

 

She closes the door, and makes a show of locking it.

 

Ah, yes, that seems to have gotten his attention.

 

He smiles wickedly at her, having gotten the hint. “So,” he says, his voice so deep and husky she feels her knees begin to buckle. “What should we do in this big empty loft?” He spends a moment tugging on the buttons of her coat before he pushes it off her shoulders, letting it drop to the floor. “Wouldn't want you feeling lonely,” he adds, his voice certainly full with something, but it isn't concern.

 

She pulls him down and kisses him firmly on the mouth. As much as she appreciates his attempts at setting the mood, she's already spent the better part of the day ready to rip his clothes off with her teeth, and there isn't much more teasing she can handle before that little daydream may become a reality. He kisses back, slowly at first, tasting her.

 

But Snow isn't in the mood for 'slow' right now. There's a certain urgency that comes from adventure and running for your life, even more so from the thought of an impending separation. She's got the holster off barely a second later, but this she's careful to set aside gently. (If there's anything that can break the moment and override their hormones it's someone getting shot in the foot.)

 

The weapons safely stowed, he's kissing her again. His fingers are caught up in her hair and her hat's made it to the floor, and that's okay because there's something both desperate and sweet in the way he's licking his way into her. She fumbles with the buttons of his shirt, just managing to free the last one and push the fabric off his shoulders when he lifts her into his arms and presses her back against the door, his teeth trailing down the side of her neck.

 

“Charming,” she breathes, and tilts her head back to grant him better access, then makes a strangled sound in the back of her throat when he grinds his hips into hers. He finds that perfect spot – the one that makes her squirm and claw at his shoulders – and settles on it. It'll leave a mark, but luckily, Snow thinks, Mary Margaret's wardrobe included a multitude of turtleneck sweaters and scarves.

 

The whole affair is dripping with desperation. He knows her well enough to know when something is wrong; he knows they're both right, that they must both stay and leave. She can feel it all in the urgency of his mouth against her throat, his need to be nearer and nearer to her.

 

They won't talk about it; not yet.

 

It won't solve anything.

 

If there's one thing she's learned from their serial separations, it's that worry solves nothing; that if they don't make the most of the time they have, there will be nothing to return to. ' _Carpe diem!_ Seize the day!' Mary Margaret would tell her students ( _Dead Poets Society_ had been her favorite movie). And through all of Mary Margaret's flaws, that is one piece of advice Snow will take.

 

She hooks her legs around his waist and threads her fingers through his hair as he lifts her full weight. Impatient, he doesn't take her to their bedroom, but deposits her on the edge of the kitchen counter. He's kissing her again, one hand snaking up under her shirt to massage her breast. She isn't sure who pulls her shirt over her head, but she soon finds herself shrugging out of her bra while David groans into her mouth.

 

She fumbles with his belt, then the button on his jeans, but she finally manages to get them undone, pushing them past his hips along with his underwear. He kicks his way out of them, along with his shoes, and worries her bottom lip between his teeth.

 

There hasn't been nearly enough of this in their lives lately. After that one particularly embarrassing incident with Emma and Henry, they've done their best to hold back. Not to say they've been as pure as can be, but silent, half-clothed lovemaking beneath the sheets is nowhere near the freedom of this moment, of urgent sounds and hands grasping bare flesh.

 

He pulls off the rest of her clothes, fumbling with the latches on her boots. She loves that about him – how he's so reverent with her, gazing at her each day like it's the first time. She digs her fingernails into his shoulder and presses a kiss to his temple when he pulls her close again.

 

She groans as he presses one, then two fingers into her, his breath hot against her ear. He pushes deeper and she bucks against his hand, desperate and completely at his mercy. His thumb joins in, finding that perfect angle and she's certain she won't last long enough to be of any use during the main course.

 

He doesn't torture her for long, sinking into her in one long stroke, his forehead pressed to hers. She meets him thrust for thrust, gasping as he picks up speed. This is sex – quick and need-driven – not rough and yet not quite lovemaking all the same. When she looks into his eyes, heavy-lidded and dark, she finds rough desire and longing in place of the usual gentle adoration. It sends a pulse of heat down her spine and to her core, pushing her further along.

 

He's shuddering against her only seconds before she reaches climax as well, her nails digging deep into his back, leaving a mark. He doesn't move away, only pulling her tighter against him as if he could never be close enough to her. “I love you,” she whispers against his shoulder, utterly breathless. It's such a Mary Margaret thing to say, because Snow doesn't need to say it after they make love, doesn't need the validation. “I don't want to be apart anymore,” she adds when breathing comes easier, and this is more sincere, more honest to the possessive grip she has on him.

 

“We'll figure it out,” he promises, a quiet murmur against her hair. His hand moves to cradle the back of her neck.

 

They're quiet for a moment, and Snow listens to his heartbeat, feels it slow then quicken again.

 

“I'd stay for you,” he adds finally, so soft she thinks at first that she's imagined it.

 

Of course he would, she thinks. He doesn't need to tell her that he'd do anything for their family, not after he took an arrow to protect her heart, after he nearly died to save their daughter. (She can feel the jagged scar-flesh pressing against her belly, against her cheek, and she chokes.) But he rarely says it, doesn't need to.

 

“I love you,” she says again, more firmly this time.


End file.
